When I read about the recent arrest of the infamous “Soulja Girl” (synopsis: she harassed an old lady on Atlanta’s metro train system, and the video got viral. for more info, watch here), I applauded. No really, I applauded all by myself in front of my computer. This was a situation that shows, really, the degradation of our youth. That huge sense of entitlement and unharnessed lawlessness really gets on my nerves with these kids. Whether it’s at the movie theatre or my schools, many of our youth have become more superficial, less integral, more belligerent, and more careless with themselves, more than anything.

While it’s easy to point at the parents, I’m of the belief that the village raises the child. When communities as a whole set a standard for how their neighborhoods like, for what their children should know, and how their offspring should behave in any given environment, I strongly believe that translates into higher success for the communities in general. There are clear examples of that in many communities of different racial and socioeconomic backgrounds, but the poorer ones rarely get highlighted. I also believe that there are neighborhoods that don’t have the social, fiscal, and/or experiential tools necessary to make that happen, but even the little things make a huge difference.

For example, at the movie theatre, I proposed to my girlfriend and partner-in-movie-watching that maybe theaters should establish a “code of conduct” at the movies. After the last few debacles at the movies, teenagers screaming curses at the screen for no apparent reason, others playfighting at the front of the movie screen, and others still hushing the people who were trying to quiet them down, I honestly wanted to dropkick at least a few of these teens for ruining these movies. Yes, they have as much right as I do to be there because they paid their 12$ like I did, but there’s an understanding that we’re all going to be quiet while the movie’s playing unless it implicitly elicits a crowd reaction, such as laughter, crying, or the occasional scream.

“Fuck that shit” is not an appropriate reaction (unless it’s Cloverfield, then go right ahead). Yet, when the movie theatre does not have appropriate consequences for dealing with people who interfere with the crowd’s movie-viewing experience, then they’re allowed to do as they please. They’ll make fart noises all throughout, get on their cell phone during the movie, or just find little ways to annoy you, thus leaving the chastising up to the patrons who are just there to enjoy a movie.

But Jose, this is coming from someone who’s a bit of a rebel rouser.

Yes, but I also understand the power of timing and purpose. Interrupting people’s subway ride because you want to scream some nonsense or act like you’re Mary J, but can’t even hit one of her lower notes is not conducive to anyone’s argument for the improvement of the proletariat’s condition. If you’re at the Kanye concert dancing to” Gold Digger” but you’re trying to sit on the stairs of a lower section than the ones you bought (and you’re the same chicks I catch at the club who never come with cash but an open hand), then you’re not really helping the situation out either. Retro Kids and hipsters crawling my stomping grounds making a whole lot of noise about the latest small-and-subpar hangout spot also make me sick. These group of people often make the noise I’m not trying to hear.

Then, I check that Soulja Girl video again, and she’s emblematic of the hip-hop movement these days in general: style without substance. At first glance, she’s reminiscent of how the young hip-hop kids would rebel against their elders through the use of music, and bucking the older generations’ culture and standards in favor of new trends and a sense of independence. Of course, that prose comes crashing down when you watch it again, and she probably doesn’t think about these implications as much as us philosophers, too. She’s probably just as annoying and trifling as she seems. And her mother said that she “didn’t take her meds that day.”

Yes, I know what you’re thinking. That excuse lacks substance for me, too.

jose, who definitely wrote a thinly-guised educational post here …

Every morning, this is what my walk to the train station looks like:

That thing I circled is The Ludlow. At first, it doesn’t look too obstructive …

Then, as I start to walk down Houston St., I realize how much it blocks my damn sunlight, the energy I feed off of every morning. It casts this huge and ominous shadow over the street; if the sun even came out that day, people might not know. Whenever I inquire about a price from my fellow LESers, they give me the big eyeroll and a deep breathe. And it’s only getting worse.

As if you didn’t know my stance on the deterioration of the Lower East Side, my neighborhood for more than a quarter-century now, I’m absolutely infuriated with the amount of gentrification that’s swept our neighborhood. When Emperor Guiliani presided over NYC and rid the city of much of NYC’s charm and character in favor of condominiums and Walt Disney, many of us wondered what the hell would happen to us. I first noticed the change when this building came up.

I was too young to understand that, as modest as this structure and its accompanying stores were, it would be the precursor for the raising of the rent and the razing of too many structures I’m familiar with. The clocks on top of the Red Square tell the right time if you strictly look at the hands, but the numbers are all switched around, meaning that the LES was now on their time and not ours.

A decade later, 1/2 of the shops, buildings, and people I used to know in this area have either evaporated or gone elsewhere, replaced with boutiques, wine shops, art and architecture showcases, and bars. An overabundance really. There’s nothing wrong with a little renovation. I’m all for getting a little more money into a neighborhood and a little less crime, but let’s look at a case study:

Building A is a brand new building. Building B’s probably been around since this was a primary Jewish neighborhood. Now, because of Building A, building B can raise its rent. And because of building B, residents of building A can say they live in better conditions, even though they live right next to each other, have to shop at the same groceries, and have the same inglorious view of the changes happening in this neighborhood.

Now, some of these shops changed completely, but others found it cute to basically keep the name of the old establishment just to look semi-authentic. (Click for larger image)

And whenever gentrification wants to leave its signature, it turns to the boys from Seattle:

Some of my critics who believe that life shouldn’t be fair and blame the victim whenever they get the chance, would probably now say, “But Jose, can’t a community grow? Why does everything have to be negative? Gentrification brings jobs, it cleans up neighborhoods, brings in people, and strengthens the community.” In some ways, they might be right. I don’t have to go very far to have fun. There’s a nice diner here that I can take my friends to, and people look at me in awe whenever I tell them I was born and raised here, a confidence booster for sure.

Yet my response stays the same: what happens to the people who’ve been working here for decades now? Why is it always appropriate for the more affluent to invade a poor person’s space and push out the inhabitants for their own gain while the poor are always ostracized when we make inroads in their communities? Why does redlining and HUD exist if this is a free society and all men are created equal? Will they have us live like on the East River when it’s all said and done?

I’m not sure, but the following structure is a hint. Look at it. It’s ugly. Really.

Need another angle?

Wait, if I look at it clearly, I think I see something …

A FIST! And there you have it. Symbolic of the struggles of the people, the fist now represents the urban developers’ forceful raping of the delicate culture Loisaida has cultivated over the last few decades. Before Time Out New York had the nerve to advertise “The Lower East Side Is Back” on their covers, people lived here. Before the NYPost and other newspapers had the nerve to mistake where Chico painted the Nixzmary Brown and 2Pac murals, the Lower East Side was here. Before the Nuyorican Poets Cafe had lines full of people trying to act like they understand the art of Pedro Pietri and mimicking each other just to look deep / cute, Pedro Pietri himself gave the people anthems to get by on those open mic nights. Before these yuppies, hipsters, posers, and wannabes giggled and vomited their way through all our neighborhoods, the Lower East Side was cool.

Odyssey, the disco band, once sang of native New Yorkers, but those come sparse like the American bald eagle and Babe Ruth rookie cards, and just as valuable. Because we still preserve the secrets, the ups and downs, the grit, and the soul that once made the Lower East Side, and hence NYC, what it was, and what people come here for. I’m not sure, but my LES is officially on its death bed, and we are the eulogizers and pallbearers of that tradition.

jose, l.e.s. for life …

p.s. - I know I linked this a couple of posts ago, but I’ll get into it a little bit later on.

Things to Keep In Mind When Attending a Movie / Play:1. Please turn off your cell phone when you come in the theater. I mean, as soon as. Especially if you know you have one of those annoying ringtones of some random celebrity telling you to pick up the phone. Morons who violate will tempt this young man to dropkick your piece of technological annoyance.

2. Shut up. I mean, really, shut up. It’d be one thing if you’re supposed to interact with the film, but this is not Blue’s Clues; it’s Definitely, Maybe, and I don’t need you to tell the whole movie theatre how corny a romantic comedy is! The absolute gall! The audacity! Go home now, ladies! The Knicks are only a couple of blocks away; you can make all the noise you want over there.

3. Cover your mouth when you cough or sneeze. If you can’t, then you skipped 1st grade. Please take a refresher course. When I’m watching a musical like Avenue Q, I don’t need you spreading your disgusting viruses all over the back of my head and neck, you leprous sore. I never had to take a shower so badly after that.

Speaking of which, my girl and I saw Avenue Q, a great musical using Jim Henson-type puppets. I hear it’s popular, and even won a Tony. The premise of the whole musical is that … well, people may not necessarily have a purpose, even with all the college degrees and jobs we accumulate. We all have some redeeming qualities that will somehow lead us to a happy ending. Overall, I found it fun and well put-together. At some point, we all forgot that there were humans actually controlling the puppets and doing their voices.

One part of the musical that bothered the both of us to some extent was the song “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist.” I knew they were going to be raunchy, and offensive, so I didn’t mind the humor much. But my girl kinda stayed silent while the rest of the predominantly White crowd (and I) laughed, especially when one of the actors quipped “Mexican busboys should learn to speak English!”

She wondered, “Are all these people laughing because they’re uncomfortable, or because they really hold these views about us? Some of the people in the audience, you can tell, really believe what they were saying.”

I laughed a little, because the leper behind me, with his venomous racket in back of me, definitely believed it, laughing so hard, he might have come all over himself. I suspect that others at the show, though, might not necessarily be racists, but products of racial prejudice, and thus act out in ways they might not even be conscious of. For instance, you ever notice how many people take everything Dave Chappelle says seriously and ignore everything Cornell West says? Yes, it’s two different ways of delivering the same message, but they’re both critical of the establishment in their own ways. Many people don’t know how to handle issues except if there’s that giveback of entertainment. “Yes, I’ll talk about how prejudice I am, but only if you promise to make me laugh or at least attempt to.”

Maybe that’s the point of the song, anyways. They wanted to show people just how racist they could be, and prove it by making them laugh at racist ideas. And what’s worse is that, during the jokes, I laughed at the apparent racism, from the Gary Coleman shtick to Christmas Eve (your average Asian-American lady stereotype). Not because I believed them, but because when people make such egregiously ignorant comments like the one above, I can’t help but laugh. Kinda like watching the Faux News Network.

what do you think?

jose, who will definitely write tomorrow to make up for my missing Monday …

An idol.The biggest of superstars.

A warrior and a man all the same.

That sweet fade-away.

The sweat-drenched NY Knicks jersey, emblazoned with the number 33 in the back.

The custom sneakers.

The Georgetown alum with 2 gold medals, part of the historic Dream Team, 11-time All-Star, Rookie of the Year from 1985-86, sure Hall of Famer, and part of the NBA 50th anniversary’s All-Time Team.

The man who carried the most prominent franchise in one of the grandest stages in the world for over a decade.

No NBA championship rings. Thus, less respect.

Patrick Ewing is probably my favorite player from any sport ever. He symbolized everything the Knicks and NYC were for a decade and a 1/2. My thoughts turned to him after watching how he’s helped Dwight Howard develop into the monster MVP candidate he is. A little greyer and bereft of that signature flat-top with the notch in his hair, and a few pounds overweight, he still had that smile that reminded me why I became a Knicks fan to begin with. At the very least, you knew each night, he’d get up into that court and play his hardest. He helped instill that gritty, hard-nosed, defiant, me-against-the-world mentality many of us had laced into our DNA since child birth. Even in defeat, Knicks fans always felt we would have another run at another great season, and another championship run.

Yet, there are those who believe we shouldn’t be attached to celebrities and sports figures, asserting we don’t need to follow these idols. In many ways, I agree. Does Patrick Ewing care whether or not I follow him or not? Probably not. I still remember times when he would end up on the back pages of the Post (ugh!), the Times, or the Daily News, heckled on his own home floor mercilessly for his reactions to the lack of fan support. While he’s out drinking his high-priced alcohol in a big house with his plethora of stats and awards, I’m somewhere in an apartment writing about how much I love him as a sports figure.
That might be the reason why we idolize them in the first place. Kids from my neighborhood look at these Black and Latino men living their dreams out for millions to see and envision themselves doing likewise. Sports and other competitions for that matter are emblematic of the struggles the common man and woman face in real life. How interesting is it that we latch ourselves onto sports teams and players in the hopes that even as superficial and capitalist these victories seem, we too feel like we won or lost depending on the outcomes. Some of us hook ourselves onto these figures so much that they become part of our lives. Their struggles become ours. Their hardships become ours.

Even without the multimillion dollar price tag strung on these players’ ankles, we still see a little of ourselves in the players we witness so much. That’s why I write about Alex Rodriguez and expectations leveled on him, Patrick Ewing and his greatness contrasted with his shortcomings, or even The Rock’s ability to carry such braggadocio and still be considered the “People’s Champion.”

We can even extend that to the celebrities of today, from Denzel’s refined passion to Morgan Freeman’s mature wisdom. Even the recent death of Heath Ledger reminds people of the shortcomings and tragedies of a bright present and a brighter future. And I hate to say this, but I suspect that people follow Britney Spears as much to see whether she’ll get out of her misery than to witness her downfall. We cheer as much for comebacks as we do the underdog. We oscillate in adulation. People took 7-8 years to realize that Al Gore was the best choice for President (out of the 2-party system we have now), but people hated him for the same reasons they love him now, only he had 7 years to prove to everyone he was right.

The figures that certain populations decide to prop up are accurate representations of the ideas and feelings that society has about themselves. If we look at New York City in 1977, we can sum up NYC’s population with three people: Reggie Jackson, George Steinbrenner, and Billy Martin. Reggie represented Blacks’ and Latinos’ dreams of upward mobility (for more, see The Jeffersons circa 1975 - 1985). George Steinbrenner represented the cantankerous bosses NYC became renown for. And Billy Martin represented the working class people in NYC, struggling to keep their jobs in a recessive job market.

Patrick Ewing, thus, represented so much of what I grew up knowing about NYC, but more importantly about myself. I grew emotionally attached to his victories and losses as a kid, and haven’t been quite as passionate about anyone outside my home or classroom in ages. I can still remember how shocked I was to see him traded to the Seattle Sonics, and subsequently came back to beat the Knicks with 18 points and 10 rebounds, but time had already taken a toll on his weak knees and other joints. His run down the court was then a lumpy jog in some stranger’s uni.

While I watch my Knicks go through this miserable stretch, I wonder how they lost that edge that made the rest of the league hate the Knicks and make us love them. The Knicks these days have a few scrappy players (Lee, Balkman, Robinson, Crawford), but in general suit up sleep-inducing and lackluster players who, leadership included, have no common mission. They really look like they’d prefer to be at home than actually representing NYC’s grand basketball history properly. It’s like watching million dollar zombies out there. Then I look at the city the team is now, and I see the same can be said for many of the people who inhabit it now.

Fuck that. Bring back Patrick. Kneepads, missed finger rolls and all. I’d rather be a contender and lose than to have never had the chance.

jose, gave away his authentic Patrick Ewing jersey to my younger cousin after he got too big to fit in it, but definitely has the 15th anniversary Team USA Ewing jersey ready for all occasions …

Yesterday afternoon, I attended a panel discussion entitled “Black, Latino, Both” sponsored by the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture (of which I am now a card carrying member) and el Museo del Barrio, and it took place at Harlem’s Schomburg Center. The panel featured Howard Jordan, Clarence Lusane, Yvette Modestin, Angela Perez, and Silvio Torres-Saillant, who I know from my Syracuse days. While I’m not inclined to discuss exactly who said what, I do have some notes I’d like to share on a rather excellent panel meeting. I’ll definitely have to go over some of these topics again during the week, but for now, these are only some of the great sub-discussions we had at the panel. (I’m trying to take a 2-hour discussion about a topic spanning 500 years into a few paragraphs. Fun.)

- Anyone who’s read my blog for a while or even took a look at my name can pretty much gather what my identity is. Yet, that’s a challenge if you’re simply taking me at face value. Honestly, people don’t know how to act when I reveal my ethnic make-up, and that works two ways: I have an identity I’ve self-developed and people have their own perceptions of what I am. Those are not mutually exclusive of each other. To the contrary, that’s the essence of understanding the race logic: race isn’t about what you see, it’s about what you think you see. And I’ll never be “Black” or “Latino” enough until people really understand what those terms truly mean.

- Arturo Schomburg. Carlos Cooks. Felipe Luciano. Men who most people would associate with either Black or Latino, but in actuality, were Black Latinos like myself. I only knew of Felipe back in freshman year of college when I first got to meet him, and the rest of them I didn’t find out until yesterday. Unfortunately, that’s what happens when both communities fail to address AfroLatinos. The names of so many other AfroLatinos who fought for their communities were obscured by their own people, and that’s unfortunate. I know a Black Latino college student-activist back in the day who could have used those role models for community activism.

- People within a certain race are not a monolith. Definitions of what it means to be part of a race change vastly depending on place and time. For instance, Jews and Italians weren’t even considered to be White until decades after coming into this country. In the same way, Blacks and Latinos don’t just have one ideology, one perspective, or one religion. There are certain trends and connections amongst many of these groups, but we don’t all have the same interests at heart, either.

- A crucial point of discussion was the evolution of the ethnic make-up of baseball players. For the last decade or two, baseball has become an increasingly Latino sport, though it’s still marketed America’s favorite pastime. Gary Sheffield once said that, despite Jackie Robinson and Larry Doby’s efforts, there are more Latin players than Black players in baseball now because Latin players are easier to control. He elaborated by saying Latino players will get sent back to their countries if they don’t comply, so they have much more to lose. Of course, I agreed with the premise of the argument, as did many of his Latino teammates (those of whom already have their citizenships and paid the Republican Party some dues).

- In connection to that point, there was also a mention of Sammy Sosa, David Ortiz, and Manny Ramirez, men who in this country, most would identify as Black men, but when asked, they identify as Dominicans … strictly. While some people may take issue with their identification, I completely understand what these players are talking about. If you’re coming from a completely different racial paradigm than the country you’re visiting, then of course you’re going to strictly identify with your nation. As someone mentioned on the panel, it’s really easy for someone who identifies as a certain group to tell someone else what their race is, without even knowing where that person’s coming from. And that’s not always a good thing.

- Then there’s the issue of immigration, and how it relates to the American workforce. Vicente Fox once sad that Mexicans will take the jobs that Blacks don’t in this country. This is with the premise that either Blacks are lazy, incompetent, or acting too good for a broom and mop. The point disturbed me for a multitude of reasons. The government instills policies for migrant workers that makes them into nothing but rotating slaves. Corporations never have to worry about minimum wage, health benefits, pensions, or anything of that nature for workers who don’t have any rights in this country. Plus, the very people bringing those migrant workers here have agents working to tell working class communities here that immigrants from all around the world are here to take their jobs, so of course on the surface, it’s easy to diminish migrant workers as sub-human.

- Lastly, the one solution for many of our social ills is not through developing some sort of hegemony. Rather, change will come from a multicultural group of concerned citizens. I try to build those coalitions wherever I go, and the results have usually been nothing but positive.

jose, who loves to hear everyone’s opinions on these topics, not just my black or latino brethren …

I recently saw one of the most disturbing videos of the year when I saw Chris Crocker (a.k.a. “Leave Britney Alone” guy) on MySpace, sobbing his eyes out as if he was channeling Spears’ soul himself. It was bananas. The mere fact that someone not even involved with Spears whatsoever can turn his angst and anger against the media in the form of a viral video makes me think what I’ve been thinking all along: fame is merely a reflection of society as a whole.

That’s easy to say, and almost simplistic in its nature, but the same people who notice this will undoubtedly say that famous people get what’s coming to them. Britney Spears should have known Kevin Federline was a sleazeball. Anna Nicole was a trainwreck to begin with so it was expected of her to die the way she did. Kurt Cobain was nothing more than a druggie and the way he died was normal for people like him. Michael Jackson is a weirdo, a child molester, and a White woman in a skeleton’s body. Michael Vick is a cold-blooded football player who thought he could get away from hurting those poor dogs and not get convicted because he’s got a ton of money. OJ Simpson is a cold-blooded murderer and his recent robbery and assault case is nothing short of a serious comeuppance. OK, maybe the last one’s true, but …

The relationship between famous people and not-so-famous people goes two ways. Famous people need others to seek after them, or else they wouldn’t be famous. It’s like they say in Hollywood: “if they’re not talking about you, then that’s a problem.” Justin Timberlake recently said on Oprah that he believes people want to know everything about his life because they don’t have lives of their own. Yet, when he records music or does movies, many of the selling points for that media come from his conspicuous relationships and events surrounding his life. That’s what separates him from a Robin Thicke: people might like his music, but his name wouldn’t be all up on people’s mouths if he didn’t seek it.

Britney Spears showed up at the MTV VMAs not looking up to the task of opening. She came a little thicker (which I liked, but most people didn’t), but not as sharp as we have been accustomed to. Needless to say she was berated to no end, hence prompting the response from Crocker. Yet, if she knew she wasn’t up to it, then why do it? It might have been because MTV finally called her back, after all this time, and she had the biggest of opportunities to reclaim the good side of fame, where she could triumph despite her afflictions. Now, despite the growth of her single “Gimme More,” we’re watching how fame can eat the innards of someone we helped prop up to be so American Apple Pie.

Yet, people would never accept responsibility for their own part in propping up these people. Remember: the general public is responsible for the success of the Jackson 5 and Michael Jackson’s ascension into kingdom. The general public is responsible for worshiping Nirvana and by default Kurt Cobain. The general public indulged in Anna Nicole’s body at the height of her popularity and her tribulations later on in her career, contributing to the success of her reality TV show, and the analysis of her personal life. Yes, their privacy was shallow at best, but when we were fed, we wanted more.

In that respect, I think of the Michael Vick case and say to myself, “How many of these protesters are actually vegetarians? How many of them screamed in horror when a dog chomped on a person’s extremities? How many of them cared when someone gets raped or tortured miles away from them?” If you’re against the objectification of dogs, then go against the objectification of all beings.

In a sense, those protesters laid all their anger and insecurities against Michael Vick when Michael Vick is really just a very small fraction of the problem. It’s like we use celebrities as extreme measuring sticks for how well we’re doing for society. Men abuse and revile their spouses all over the world, yet will be quick to tell people at least they never murdered them like OJ. Video models and “models” alike will do certain favors and show a little bit of everything so they can get a spot on some artists’ video or magazine cover, yet they’ll tell the whole world they’re not Katherine Steffans a.k.a. “Oral Fixator to the Stars.” As we know from the recent news about “Marsha and Jan Brady,” not everything baked is truly that wholesome.

And I’m not here telling people what to think, but we as a society might want to realign our views with what characters have more social value. These same individuals need to understand the unwritten contract they sign off on once they become involved with fame. If they can’t handle it, then I need not hear another viral video crock admonishing the rest of us for something some star brought upon herself.

“Leave fame alone! UH huh huh huh huuuh!”

:: rolls eyes::

Blanquito please …

jose, who laughed eventually at that video. no really …

After this post, you would think I’d be done with analyzing portions of my background. Then Sunday arrived: the annual Dominican parade. I had a meeting I couldn’t cancel in a place I couldn’t avoid. I had questions I couldn’t avoid like “Are you going?” and “Why not?” and “What’s good with the girls?” They’re all very valid questions but …

It’s not that I hate parades. I like parades. I think. Well at least I thought I did. Then, I got a little knowledge, and for the life of me, I realized that more than 1/2 of the people in the Dominican Day parade had no reason to truly celebrate. After all, if they knew that Rafael Trujillo instilled Dominican pride by belittling their African roots and hence by killing Haitians, they might not be so loud and proud. If they knew that even to this day, Black Dominicans in Dominican Republic who wish to express themselves through their art and culture often get dismissed, stripped of funds, or told to “take that down.”

If they knew that the view people have about what Dominicans look like is as limited as the spaces they often travel. I know too many of mi gente that never leave their barrios, whether it be Bonao or the Heights, and only look at themselves as the standard for what it means to be Dominican when in fact, there’s no way to tell whether someone’s truly Dominican or not.

Then again, I see all these other parades for the Irish, Puerto Ricans, Columbians, Italians, Indians (and by that I mean people from India), West Indians, and a million other parades, and come to the fact that it’s cool to have a celebration just to have a celebration. Often, we lose sight of our culture because there’s this constant amalgamation in America. We incorporate other people’s foods and language at a rather steady rate, merging us into this stew pot of bits and pieces. Therefore, for many of us, it’s important to have these moments when people from the same or similar culture can have a time to celebrate what’s left and the progress they’ve made. It’s not self-segregation, but recognition of one’s ancestors.

Plus, one can make the case that the higher-ups in America would prefer to water down our culture in favor of assimilation into the more dominant culture (that’s easily seen in our schools, jobs, and everyday life). So instead of tearing some of these jerks a new hole for acting so pretentious, I just nodded and walked away, hoping information like this might infiltrate the subconscious of a people with transfigured roots …

jose

p.s. - By the way, I just wrote an article about Common’s recent rise to pop star. Common’s definitely not common …

I just got back from New Orleans, after a delay with the airport shuttle (taxis are so indispensable), a delayed flight from NO to Charlotte, and then another from there to NYC-LaGuardiA. I won’t even tell you the airline’s name, but I’m wary about doing business with them again after all of that. Fortunately, one of my greatest qualities is my patience, so I just said “f*** it” throughout the day.

Anyways, New Orleans, Louisiana was good. I mostly stayed in the French Quarter, about 2 blocks or so from Bourbon St. It’s good in the sense that I had a really good time and all the touristy stuff was within walking distance (for a New Yorker, that’s about a 2-3 mile radius). Yet, I felt weird because I was contributing to a part of the city that was left mostly untouched through the Katrina and subsequent Rita hurricanes.

As I walked through Bourbon St. that first night, I got a glimpse of the revival efforts made within the city. We saw some beautiful bands playing everything from jazz and funk to rock and country. I had Hurricanes, Hand Grenades, margaritas, Who’s To Blames, and other assorted drinks I can’t quite remember for some reason. It definitely reminded me of Dominican Republic in the architecture, smell, and candor, but just this time around, everyone spoke English and there were more blanquitos. Many more.

My traveling partner then said something out of the blue that really hit home. Upon looking some of the T-Shirts (”FEMA: Fix Everything My @$$,” “Evacuation Plan: Run, B****, Run,” and “I’m Here About The BlowJob” were some of the more prominent messages), she said, “Yeah it’s funny, but the sadness is still there. It’s still very sarcastic.”

As we rode on the Steamboat Natchez, we saw the lasting effects of that fateful August disaster. The announcer-narrator tried to sound objective throughout the tour, but he found it really hard to. He announced how the levees were still not fixed near the 9th Ward (Time Magazine recently re-confirmed that), the businesses were shutting down left and right, and boats weren’t pulling into their shores the way they used to. For some of the natives, that famous Southern hospitality was replaced with a “Where you from?” a hint in the hood for “You’re not from around here. Get out.” We got a lot of that from some of our own “people,” (whatever that means).

It didn’t matter the color of the person either; the people who ran the swamp tour went from 55,000 customers before Katrina to 15,000 last year. Walking down Canal Street gave me a strong sense of what I’d suspected all along; all the trees knocked down by the storm were used for boarding up all the (working class owned) businesses up and down the street.

With that said, though, I still felt rather optimistic for N’Awlins. I still remember the 544 Funky Club playing “Candy” (Cameo) and “Electric Boogie (Slide)” (Marcia Griffiths) with so much vigor. The bar right across played a rather rousing rendition of “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses. I ate some of the richest food I’ve ever had in the form of po’ boys, jumbalaya, gumbo, char grilled oysters, and hush puppies. My traveling partner didn’t have to do anything for her beads, and she even got a little trumpet rendition of “Isn’t She Lovely” by Stevie Wonder played for her. I still had a very positive experience in New Orleans.

For all the negativity that surrounds a catastrophic event like 9/11, Katrina, or a tsunami, the mark of a civilization’s death or life lies in the preservation (and not gentrification) of its culture.

Re Cover
Re Build
Re New Orleans …

jose, who got tired of wrestling alligators in the bayou …

What I omitted about my latest Rock the Bells concert situation was when the same Canadian went up to my girl and said, “And you’re 1/2 White and 1/2 Black?”

“Why do you say that?” she replied in her usual inquisitive voice.

“Because of your nose.”

I let out a hearty laugh, because as it turns out, she’s Colombian and Ecuadorian, yet because of her mind state, she never gets offended by people confusing what she might or might not be.

I guess in his mind, though, there’s no doubt as to what I am. Suffice it to say, people immediately peg me as “Black.” That’s fine; there’s nothing wrong with that. What’s unfortunate, though, is how limiting these labels become. What does it mean to be Black in this country? And does it allow for people who don’t necessarily fit right in that slot?

After all, practically all my life, I never quite fit into the “Black experience” in America. As a Dominican-Haitian-American, I didn’t have the big family reunions in the park, the knowledge of Haitian Creole that I would have liked to, or even the pride in my country that these groups are respectively known for. For the most part, I’ve been waltzing through the four cultures (Dominican, Haitian, Black-American, American) just sampling each, and feeling rejection at various points from all. When people ask me for my background, I tell them “Dominican-Haitian, or Black will do” because that’s what the question entails, but sometimes I wish “Planet Earth” sufficed. (I sometimes wonder about that, too.)

So when I go to Santo Domingo, the capital of Dominican Republic, I see a sea of Africans who’ve made their homes there. I’ve seen very few people who were fair-skinned in the barrio I come from. Yet, when I go there, I’m outcast twice: for being Haitian and American. I tried to fit in, but eventually, the truth about my upbringing comes through.

The same dynamic happens when I’m with my Haitian relatives: while I can still hang with them, eat the foods, and read as much history about Haiti as humanly possible, I still feel that disconnect because I can’t communicate with them in Creole, so I can’t understand the jokes, the music, or what that particular thing is called that this person’s asking me to get for her. Even to this day, this has often brought people to question whether I’m even a real Vilson.

I attribute these sentiments to a father who wasn’t consistently there, a mother who loves me but didn’t teach me Dominican history, and a society so disturbed, it can map out what race is supposed to look like and deny the definitions in the same breadth. Not only until recently did I hear my grandaunt and my mother proclaim their African roots. That certainly would have helped the little boy I was to sift through this cultural clutter.

I’m also critical of the categories those early social scientists and politicians constructed for humans. These divisions exist primarily to divide. How much easier was it for Rafael Trujillo to justify the genocide of and contempt for Haitians when Dominicans could fall under every other name but “Black” even when they looked so alike to them? How easy is it to insulate “desirable” communities in this country if people have to fill in the category they were taught to bubble in on the basis of race? How wonderful is it that people who are “mutts” can be shown disrespect for giving credence to the idea of race (”Race is just a social construct! You fit in just fine!”) AND on the same end, for not being “enough” of one race.

Then, I look at my experiences as a Dominican-Haitian-American, and realize that as many obstacles and tribulations I’ve had, they eventually made me who I am, and I love that person. I love my ability to switch between English and Spanish, to enjoy merengue, hip-hop, salsa, bachata, and rock with no qualms. I’ve been in executive boards of Black and Latino organizations, and held memberships in Haitian and Carribean organizations. I can write about these experiences from my own perspective. I love my brown skin, and how it only costs me a few dollars to get a haircut. (I love my ass, too, but mainly because of the positive reactions I get from women. I can’t help that.)

And I can finally tell the boy wrapped up in the confusion that he’ll find his own path , because it’s the path he’ll have to make for himself …

When we talk about black maybe
We talk about situations
Of people of color and because you are that color
You endure obstacles and opposition
And not all the time from….from other nationalities
Sometimes it comes from your own kind
Or maybe even your own mind
You get judged…you get laughed at…you get looked at wrong
You get sighted for not being strong
The struggle of just being you
The struggle of just being us…black maybe

Common - “U, Black Maybe”

jose

Ed. Note: For a little perspective, my colleague Andy A. sent me this excellent article yesterday about how Dominican women straightening out their hair is a direct reflection of their denial of their African heritage. It’s all part of the Miami Herald’s series of articles about Afro-Latin Americans. What’s funny about this series is that it confirms exactly what I uncovered about my own history: my Dominican ancestors continually deny their African heritage because that’s all they’ve ever known.

Today, after class, I saw one of my girls from my school. She’s the one that gave me the “Man of the Year” award, which I more than appreciated. We had a nice long conversation about everything from why the hell I would even put that out on the Web to the boy she’s dating (a kid who I consider a son, so it’s fine). When I saw her coming up, I tried to maintain my teacher face, but inside I was gushing. I was really happy to see her, and that’s something that’s missing these days. I remember …

… when it was OK to hug your teacher and tell them that they were the greatest without some sort of sexual allegation pressed against them. I mean, seriously. I understand that there are necessary precautions a school has to take against sexual predators who’ve infiltrated the co-ed fraternity that is teaching. However, these people tend to be the very small exception than the rule. Many of the teachers who I consider colleagues and friends and who’ve had distinctive success in the classroom make themselves accessible not just academically, but socially and emotionally. It’s a way of investment that takes a fair level of understanding. It’s something I was brought up with and something that’s missing because of our lawsuit culture.

For that matter,

… when teachers would retire when they wanted to, but when they were scared their contract would screw over their pension, seniority rights, and tenure. (NYCEducator does a good job of highlighting many of these issues). I fear that, if I stay in this profession for decades on end, I’ll have to stay in the profession even longer than my predecessors do because our contract was divested of all these privileges. In the direction that NYC is going, it’s either that NYC teachers won’t even be in the classroom for longer than 5-6 years or they’ll have to work the hallways until they’re 70. Let’s hope neither of these happen.

… when it was important to have teachers who knew what they were doing, instead of this youth culture that values freshness rather than experience. There’s a sense in many of the observations I’ve made that leadership is getting younger, and less experienced. They’re trying to demonstrate to teachers who are usually more experienced than them how to teach. That’s their “job,” yet because of that lack of experience, the more experienced teachers become frustrated with that leadership.

… when people didn’t have to blog anonymously to get their points across.

… how proud I felt about the schools I attended. I went through a good series of public and private schools that, despite the negative aspects, really prepared me for the world I face now.

… when losing my pencil or pen was the worst thing that could happen for that entire week. The loss of a pencil to someone who thinks a quarter’s a big deal; now I lose one and it’s just another reminder to drop by Staples.

… when kids had a break in the middle of class just to chill out, write rhymes, talk about the latest trends, run out into the playground and play, read The Source, and talk about girls we thought we “type cute.” What many people don’t understand is that kids don’t think about school as a business. It’s their socialization vehicle, and because of our business model for school nowadays, we’re missing great opportunities to engage them in becoming better citizens. It’s no wonder why so many of our schools have classroom management problems; if I had to sit on my ass for hours on end and listen to someone talk at me for 6 hours and 20 minutes, I’d be too mad.

Now, off to sleep before I start liking that new McDonald’s commercial. Ketchup and mayo, ketchup and mayo …

jose

p.s. - I’m moving to a different school! :-p